_These Lynnekers_ (CASSELL) is yet another example of the "family" novel whose increasing popularity I have lately noticed. It is a clever and interesting story--the name of Mr. J. D. BERESFORD assured me in advance that it would be--and, when it is finished, the characters go on living and speaking in one's mind, which is, I suppose, a sound proof of their vitality. Yet in a sense vitality was just what most of the _Lynneker_ tribe chiefly lacked. They were an ancient and honourable house, country-born to the third and fourth generation, and all of them far too conventional and apathetic and fuss-hating ever to follow any but the line of least resistance. All of them, that is, except _Dickie_, who was the youngest of his father's numerous progeny, and in more senses than one a sport. How _Dickie_ released himself from the shackles of family tradition, how he grew up and bustled things about, and generally made a real instead of a conventional success--this is the matter of the tale. All the characters are well-drawn, and about _Dickie_ himself there is a compelling virility that rushes you along in his rather tempestuous wake. I am not sure that I altogether believe in his attitude towards the question of sex. He appeared to think generally too little, and on occasions remarkably too much, about it. Also the painful detail with which the author lingers over the death of old _Canon Lynneker_ (that attractive and human figure of ecclesiastical gentility) roused me to resentment. When will our novelists learn that, as regards the physical side of mortality, reticence is by far the better part of realism? This marred a little my pleasure in a story for whose quality and workmanship I should else have nothing but praise. * * * * *